


Behind These Castle Walls

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drabble, F/M, Ice Queen Lydia Martin, Pining, Stydia, Tbh no real setting or timeline, Unresolved Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She preserves pride and picture with lipstick,(red) heels, (high) and chewing celery sticks in the cafeteria as he does not look at her.It hurts somewhere and then and there she hasn't yet realised that she's under attack.That comes later, in his room with hurt centred at the tip of her pointy finger, (lips; dry) not from the red string wrapped around it, (heels; by the door) but from where his hands are gently pressing down on her skin.





	Behind These Castle Walls

**Author's Note:**

> There's no real excuse for this except that I drag myself through the ditch that is my love for Lydia Martin daily, which then extends and alwaaaays and in Stydia.
> 
> !!!! Shit
> 
> Please enjoy

She assumes that it's been growing quietly. Wrapping its bony fingers around her frail frame and whispered password after password to the guards at her heavily armed mourns until it finally guessed the right one.

When he shows up at her doorstep with McDonald's that one grey afternoon, two hours after last period she thinks it might've guessed right on the first try. Or worse, when he drops the bag into her arms and immediately goes off about Scandinavian folklores, it might've known the right answer all along. 

She preserves pride and picture with lipstick,(red) heels, (high) and chewing celery sticks in the cafeteria as he does not look at her. It hurts somewhere and then and there she hasn't yet realised that she's under attack.  
That comes later, in his room with hurt centred at the tip of her pointy finger, (lips; dry) not from the red string wrapped around it, (heels; by the door) but from where his hands are gently pressing down on her skin.

She doesn't see it coming, and that is the worst part. Her eyes have always been trained at the armies outside of her gates, and never at the forest in the north, where wild things grow.  
She has the armies ruled with iron fist. Prom goes in her colour-theme and pathways part for her in the hallways. They flock around her, wanting approval, spilling secrets like they're the same weight as gold. Only she knows they weigh more heavily.  
He. Him. He.  
He comes from the forest. He's not armed and neither declaring war. He's the most dangerous of them all, and Lydia doesn't see him coming. 

She doesn't see him until he's already standing with her breath caught in his smile and the pads of her fingers burning to close whatever kind of mile separating them at the table in the cafeteria.  
She knows it comes quietly, because one day she looks at him and thinks;  
"how long have you've been living here? Inside my castle and my walls of cold stone and designer clothes? How long have you've stolen my breath and slowly killed me through leaving my eyes always searching for your hands?"

She thinks; 

"I can't remember not loving you."

She bites down on a stick of celery and Stiles does not look at her. She's dying. She's sure. His knuckles are bruised from lacrosse training and Scott is reading dumb jokes from a website on his phone out loud to him. He smells like grass and laundry detergent and she's dying.  
When did he stop looking? 

She wants to find where inside of her he hides and drag him out by the neck. But her search is in vain and it makes her bite at him when he says that "you look nice today."  
'You're already inside.' She thinks .  
'Why keep taunting me?'

She wants to be strong. She wants to be strong so she reads up on hormones. She reads about serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin and at home she takes on harder equations than she usually does on weeknights. 

Equation one: probable - what does one need to subtract from two positive integers in an addition to instead end up with two separate numbers?  
Answer: it needs to stay unsolved.

Equation two: probable - he was always dangerous, she just couldn't see him lurking at his locker because he was hidden beneath too big t-shirts and held the knife behind his back. 

Answer: She was blind. 

Equation three: certain - it's his hands. How they move when he speaks, (or worse - when he's quiet.) It's his eyes. How they bore into her ribcage, wise and visceral and sometimes so sad or so, so gone. It's his voice. The way it lulls her into a soft abyss and cut through her with the force of a ground sword simultaneously. It's all the constants that makes him up and it's absolutely, (she's completely certain) lethal to her. 

Answer: Stubbornly, she thinks; yet to be proven. 

He shifts gears in the jeep and glances over at her as they take a left out on main street. 

"Is something wrong?" He asks, eyebrows knitting together in a way that makes her want to lean over and smooth her hands over the valleys it creates on his forehead. 

Everything. 

"Nothing." She answers, but she can't be bothered with pursing her lips into a thin smile. She stares ahead instead, hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

He scoffs, eyes drifting over the rear-mirror before fixing on the road again, fingers steady around the leather of the steering wheel. 

"Then why are you looking at me like I stomped on Prada?" Stiles asks. It's supposed to be funny, she thinks. But none of them are laughing. 

You must know.

She meets his eyes next time he glances into the mirror. 

"Nothing." She says, and he is silent in response. It says enough. 

He forgets things in her room, and she collects them greedily, like a magpie gathers shining treasures. She thinks it should be safe enough. They're already in her nest after all. 

There's his t-shirt, and the checkered blue flannel that he left behind that day they made lemonade and sat in her backyard and he told her the entire backstory of the World of Warcraft universe.  
There's his notebook from Chem class. His doodles and handwriting surprisingly adult, too old, to be representing the boy spread out on her carpeted floor going on and on about his dads latest case at the station and what he wants to be when he grows up.  
There's the smell of her pillows after he's leaned back against them entire afternoons and listened to her the way she thought people didn't actually do. She can't remember listening, not before him. 

She cowers in her tower. She's cold and distant and he's an assassin that's coming for her heart. She fears when he finally reaches her, that'll be all that's left of what once made up her being. 

She tells Scott one night, not sure why but certain he won't tell. 

"He's killing me." 

She means for it to sound like an annoyed jab, but I comes out small and wavering.  
Scott looks up, surprised with big, kind eyes and grabs onto her hand. He's a little clammy but she appreciates the contact all the same.  
"Are you sure?" He asks, voice sincere and always, always on her side.  
"I don't get it. I was fine before him." She answers instead.  
Because thing is, she's not sure. 

She says she's dying, but maybe the light he seems to pour into her isn't the one at the end of it all. Maybe it's the beginning. Perhaps, he's breathing life into the pale quarters of her body. Maybe he's not draining her blood, maybe he's making it burn with the rush of it inside of her instead.

Yet to be proven. Or maybe as easy as it can be.

One day he sits by his kitchen table and stares down at the homework-assigned equations spread out in front of him, hair sticking up on one side and chewing at his thumb. The afternoon-light picture of him buries her six feet under.  
No. No. 

Maybe. 

He looks up. 

Maybe she's not dying. 

His eyes are steady on hers. 

Maybe he's not killing her. 

"Are you ok, Lyds?"

Maybe he makes her climb down her stoic, lonely (so lonely) tower. 

She stands up leans over the table and grips his collar firm. 

Maybe he stopped looking but she's not really listening anymore and her heart is beating loud, loud, loud. 

She hauls him forward, pauses an inch from his face and stares into the forest. 

Here, she abandons her ruin castle, strips bare and goes north. Time to get lost. 

His palms are flat on the tabletop surface, but he leans into her touch, and when he almost smiles; that's when she dares. 

She kisses him. 

Maybe, it's time to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Please comment any thoughts about this you might have down below!


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